The second you enter my play space; you feel the weight of your clothes bearing down on you. Your shirt is too tight, your jeans constrictive; the fabric of your underwear rubs you the wrong way. You’re hot and itchy, and you know what you need.
“Take your clothes off,” I order.
You comply eagerly, stripping until you stand before me in your nakedness, and it feels right. It feels like coming home. I study you, enjoying the way your body trembles under my gaze, the way you flush pink from head to toe. I step closer to you, brushing a feather over your sensitive nipples, making you gasp.
“Mistress,” you whisper, “I need…”
“I know what you need,” I interrupt. I reach for a set of soft fur lined cuffs, attaching them to your wrists and ankles. I secure you to the massage table, leaving you spread-eagled and vulnerable.
I hop up on the table and straddle you, my face just inches from yours. I can see the anticipation in your eyes, the desperate longing for my touch.
“Please,” you beg, “tickle me.” I laugh, a low, sensual sound that makes you shiver. “Oh, I’ll do more than tickle you, my dear,” I promise.
Before I climb off the table, I lean forward, tracing my tongue along the curve of your ear. You moan, squirming against the restraints. I nip at your earlobe, then soothe it with my tongue, all while my fingers dance over your skin. I tease your nipples, your ribs, the soft skin of your inner thighs. You’re writhing now, panting, begging for more.
I oblige, of course. I tickle you until you’re gasping, until you’re laughing so hard that you can’t breathe. I don’t stop until you’re begging me to, until your body is slick with sweat and your eyes are shining with tears. Finally, I sense you are at your limit, and I pause. I slowly release you from the handcuffs.
Trembling and gasping for breath, I wrap you in a sheet and slide up next to you. I feel the rapid beat of your heart and the warmth of your body. I can still hear the echoes of your laughter, the sound of your desperate pleas and your gasps of pleasure.
“Thank you, Mistress,” you murmur, your voice hoarse from laughter.
“You’re welcome, my dear,” I reply.
I know what you need, and I’m here to give it to you. I’m here to make you laugh, to make you scream, to make you beg. I’m here to give you the release you crave, the relief you need.
I’m your mistress. I’m here for you.
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